


Naked

by aderyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Handcuffs, Intimacy, Nudity, Sharing a Bed, Socks, what is it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:05:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re as naked as the days they were born.</p>
<p>“That’s a ridiculous cliché,” Sherlock says, shivers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naked

**Author's Note:**

> Emma, thank you!  
> PFG, always thank you.

_"We've only just arrived here,_  
 _rightly, whirling and weeping,_  
 _freely, breathing, brightly born."--Brenda Shaughnessy, "Our Andromeda"  
_

 

They’re as naked as the days they were born.

“That’s a ridiculous cliché,” Sherlock says, shivers.

“Well it works, doesn’t it,” John says.

His teeth click and he shifts closer.

*****

Once when he was dying Sherlock confessed his undying love.

He wasn’t actually dying, just dressed in nothing and a bit concussed.

Maybe a fever.

Which John told him, patient.

With a hand on his stripped shoulder.

And holding his head steady with the other.

But Sherlock just said it again.

They’ve been naked before.

*****

It’s no big deal, then.

Naked in an empty flophouse not so many days from the second solstice.

Cuffed to some kind of grate. Scraped up, bruised, not dead.

“Bastards,” John spits, tugs against the cuffs.

“Don’t waste your energy.”

“Anger'll keep you warmer than …”

“Than this?”

Cool hipbone against his, somehow.

*****

“Are you …” Sherlock says.

“No,” says John, "I'm thinking about your sock index."

What?

Sherlock's femur.

A hot shower would be nice.

"They won't be back," Sherlock says.

"The bastards."

"Ninety-eight percent certain."

"Uh-huh."

"He'll find us."

"Lestrade."

"Obvious."

"Yeah."

*****

Hours are not friendly.

Light is not constant.

Cold makes the flesh rise, shrink, tremble, change.

Makes the marks rise, the moles, the contours, the scars.

Revealed: the topo-, the skymap of you.

*****

"Sherlock?" John says.

Sherlock hasn't spoken for awhile.

Has somehow wedged a toe under John's left arch.

It's ice.

"Yes John."

"Never thought I'd be ..."

"Chained naked to a grate?"

"No, that's not ..."

"With me?"

"Could never have happened with anyone else."

Bald fact or confession.

Laughter, full and thin.

John strains against the metal again.

Nothing for it.

But toe to arch, hip to hip.

Breathe deep; don't sleep.

Sherlock's head, icicle, breaks towards him.

*****

"When I was seven," Sherlock says, "Mycroft found me in the garden in January."

"With a heap of frozen slugs, an acetylene torch, and no pants," says John.

Faint snort.

" _Limax cinereoniger._ He carried me inside."

"Under protest. You were ill for six weeks."

A soft silence.

"Rainstorm, overlooking the Arghandab," John says.

"The coldest you've ever been."

"Yeah."

"But you could see the sky at least."

"And I was armed."

"And clothed."

Smiles, John thinks.

A squeeze not quite felt.

Muscles clenching beneath nothing.

*****

Heavy.

Eyelids and light arms.

Still able to shiver.

Good.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, you OK?"

"Deleting winter."

Choked giggle.

Freckles.

Bone on bone, and skin.

Scars.

Tracts of skin, and stars.

*****

Oh, god," Greg says.

He’s got two orange blankets and a thermos and Sherlock’s coat.

He puts it all in one arm, covers Donovan’s eyes with the other hand.

“Get the medics in here.”

“No,” Sherlock says, “we’re fine.”

“You’re not fine, Sherlock; you’re shaking.”

"And naked," Sally says, but serious.

“Get these off,” John says.

“We’re going home.”

*****

John bunches blankets on the sofa like autumn leaves.

Puts the kettle on with blue-nailed hands, mutters _hypothermic, fuck_.

Shoves Sherlock into the shower.

Goes in to hand hot sugary brew into the spray.

It beats on his hands, his face, the front of the jumpers he’s pulled on.

Sherlock sets the tea in the soap dish.

Grips him by both wrists, pulls his head in and under.

“For shit’s sake get in, “ Sherlock says.

John does.

*****

“Drink,” John says, hands over another cup.

Sherlock’s still shivering, fire and layer and blanket.

He’s thin, yeah. Not enough mass.

Fine hair on his arms, earlier, silver in the low light.

Freckles starred on his upper left, Andromeda maybe.

He would have deleted that. 

And John had seen his bicep before.

Never noticed until now.

*****

He doesn’t remember how they got into Sherlock’s bed.

Wakes to an eyeful of elements and lemon-and-lavender-scented cotton.

Good English limestone flecked and chipped to a shoulder.

Slice of black t-shirt under a shell of dressing gown.

Flannel. Wool. Hair. Hair.

Gathered beneath the heavy metals.

And that’s all just Sherlock.

*****

John said something about sacrifice chained to a rock, rambled.

While raking hands through hair he thinks, not his.

Muttered bedtime stories, oceans and princes and stars.

While rifling though drawers.

While thinking _locked together,_

_and isn't that familiar,_

_and here, and now._

*****

Sherlock comes awake slow, blinks the cuffs off, blinks.

“John.”

“Yeah.”

“Thought we might be …”

“In a bit of trouble last night, yeah.”

Sherlock's got his wrists again.

Pulls so hard they might lengthen, his forearms.

Might be long enough to disarm, reach around.

Free them from grates and gates and jams.

Slip free and round shoulders.

Hold.

*****

Warm pool of light on the bedroom floor. **  
**

John: three jumpers. Three pairs of socks.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Andromeda, the stars](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Andromeda_annotated.png)   
> [Andromeda, the myth](http://www.constellationsofwords.com/Constellations/Andromeda.htm)   
> [Topography,astronomical objects](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Topography)


End file.
